


As Godless A Nation

by SansSoucis



Series: Kissing Knuckles [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Biting, Childhood Sweethearts, Christianity, Complicated Relationships, Dark, Drinking, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, FrUK/Ukfr - Freeform, France and England being their horrid selves, France wearing weird medieval pointy boots, Heavy Sexual Undertones, Historical, Historical Dress, Historical Figures, Historical References, Hundred Years War - Freeform, Jealousy, M/M, Middle Ages, Minor Violence, One Shot, Religion, Rivalry, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22363807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansSoucis/pseuds/SansSoucis
Summary: The 6th of June, 1329.He truly is a sight to behold, even more so now, France, bare-toothed sneer on his flushed glistening lips, pure chaos in his gaze.'Go to hell, England!' He screeches, something of a sob threading through the curse and it's music to England's ears. The fur trimmings of his coat are stained with blood, trickling down from where England's teeth pierced his skin.'I will, France.' England says coldly. 'And I will meet you there.'Or; France and England never fail to bring out the very worst in one another, especially on the eve of war.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), France (Hetalia)/Other(s)
Series: Kissing Knuckles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1193495
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	As Godless A Nation

It was the 6th of June, 1329, and the grand hall of Piqcuigny castle was alight with laughter and song, the figures of the happily chattering banquet attendees -knights and dukes and earls alike- throwing long, odd shadows over the thick castle walls.

England hides away from the light, wandering along the empty hallways with nothing but his pondering mind and a bottle of mead for company. 

While the common folk might regard this day as one of celebration -surely every single historian, court poet and minstrel would speak of the times where his good king Edward put his hands into those of Philip IV of Valois, and swore to him an oath of loyalty under the magnificent ceilings of the cathedral of Amiens- England was in no mood to feast. 

_The oath meant nothing,_ he thought sourly, _just empty words to try and put the greedy frog king off from barging into English possessions and taking them at once._ Meaningless phrases crafted to soothe and flatter in an attempt to buy time, time to forge weapons and raise armies, time to prepare for the war that would inevitably come. 

As an immortal observer he had lived and died on the green face of Earth for ages on end, watching humankind wrong itself continuously over the decades, and he knew that war always came, for the world simply could not seem to do without.

His pensive silence is interrupted by the sound of footsteps, accompanied by uncharmingly breathy giggling and a horrifyingly familiar slur of an accent that manages to tense up every single fibre of England's being as soon as the sound falls upon his eardrums. 

Before he has another second to brood France swoops in in a rustle of garments, the skin-crawling noise of bands of gold and silver scraping against the wall as he flattens one unsteady palm against it making the hairs on the back of England's neck rise.

The drunk fool is not only trying to steady himself, but the human he's been dragging along as well. It's a light-haired woman, quite a young one at that, if the way her large eyes keep eagerly flicking up to her companion's face in senseless childlike worship is anything to go by. 

_'Mon seigneur Arthur Kirkland, quelle surprise!'_ France croons dangerously, making a ridiculously tiny bow, even more ridiculous because he barely manages to keep his stance in the heavy boots with long pointy toes that seem to be all the rage across the French court nowadays, trusting the girl who eagerly clutches at his side to support him as she keeps laughing that same infuriating, horse-like laugh. 

The top lace of her bodice is purposely undone, England notes with distaste, the alcohol-induced flush is evident on her wide, round face; yet another wench seduced and deceived by the rustling whispers of France's deep blue fur-trimmed coat and puffed up sleeves, the pheasant feathers on his purple hat. 

'Sir Francis Bonnefoy, what a pleasure.' He says with an icy bow of his own, and the words leave acid in the back of his throat. He ignores the girl as she curtsies deeply, just like France will surely do as well after he has had his fill. Old habits die hard, and England is a little too acquainted with this particular one. 

Still, it's only what they deserve, those daft peasant girls, too enchanted by the peacock ruffling its feathers to notice the sharp edge of its beak. Though admittedly he's got to empathize with her a bit, because once France's got his feathers up, it is nearly impossible to draw away. 

* * *

_He still remembers, long before Rome fell from his throne, bloody beautiful Gaul, towering above him wearing seashells in his ears, honeysuckle on his wrists and mystery on his lips, and little Britannia utterly enraptured in his deep blue gaze as he gracefully drew up his tunic, exposing ankles, legs and higher up.._

* * *

_Yes,_ England muses sourly as he swallows his dry mouth away, France had never failed to spark something within him _,_ sending his stomach twisting in tight knots, whether it was with murderous rage, deep sorrow or something darker and far more sinful he dared not to speak or think of anymore. 

'I had not expected to cross paths with you here, _monsieur_.' France drawls languidly, seemingly unaware of England's inner turmoil, one hand skimming over his young companion's side and along the lower edge of her bodice. 

The movement is painfully slow, calculated and obviously meant for England to follow with his eyes just as he is doing now. Perhaps jealousy truly is hidden on the bottom of the bottle because England feels it drop down into the empty pit in his stomach as he watches those wretched fingers dig their path into folds of skirts and is unwittingly reminded of those same eager, quicksilver hands working on the cords of his own tunic.. 

France meets the storm that's raging in his eyes, and his loose smile catches a bite. 

'Please do tell, _mon ami;_ why do you lurk here in the dark while there is a celebration in full swing?' 

At England's silence, he continues, as he lets his hands wander shamelessly over the gradually crimson-turning woman:

'Why not simply enjoy the best the French court has to offer? Food, drink..maidens fair, lest not forget!' He chuckles, hand teasingly squeezing down on a hip. 

The woman stifles another one of those horrid laughs, and _Lord_ , _she hardly is a fair maiden_ , England thinks, her graceless movements and loose, ill-tailored dress betraying she's a kitchen help at best. 

France does not seem to let this knowledge refrain him from lewdly kissing a trail up the side of her neck and fondling one of her breasts as England watches and feels his brain turn into smouldering mush behind his eyes. 

'If you _must_ know,' He calls out sharply, voice ringing along the empty corridors. 'I decided to seek out the comforts of solitude to speak to our Lord and our Lord alone, to beg of him forgiveness for my sins and those of others.' 

He makes it a point to pour as much repulsion as he can muster into his gaze as he slowly drags it down over his nemesis and the pray he's caught, and it works, for the girl shifts uncomfortably in France's grip while France studies him with morbid curiosity, cat watching mouse. 

'Perhaps you and your countrymen ought to do the same; for as far as I have witnessed, this land seems to have strayed far, _far_ away from the Lord's heavenly light.' 

The woman gasps loudly in offense for the country she holds dear, and _oh! if the poor thing ever were to find out the true identity of the well-dressed, honey-voiced man who was going to rob her of her maidenhood then leave her alone and impure, surely she could do nothing but agree with his statement,_ England thinks evilly. 

Besides, both he and France have had blood dripping from their hands since the beginning of times and no amount of indulgences and prayer could save either of their miserable souls.

France knows this as well as he does but bites at the taunt nevertheless, smirk widening ever so slightly as his eyes darken. 

'Why don't you run along now, _cherie_?' He murmurs to the girl, and while crooned as a sensual request, it's unmistakably an order.

He honestly can't blame the wench for looking so disappointed as she gathers her skirts and hurries off. France makes a show of watching her behind as she goes. 

'She looked as if her mother just gave birth to her.' England scoffs as soon as she's turned the corner. 'Is she even of age?' 

'Does it matter?'

France's sharp smirk and narrowed eyes resemble far too much of a highly smug cat.

'She's a mere peasant. It was not as if we are to be wedded.' 

* * *

_He had carved Gaul a ring once, out of a smooth, white stone that had washed up upon the shores, and as he put it around his slender, marble fingers Gaul had been his, for mere moments at last. At times, on lonely drunken nights, he wondered if France had kept it still, ugly duckling hidden among all the golden ringlets, cuffs embedded with rubies, necklaces laced with pearls in his jewelry box.._

* * *

'You truly are the most _revolting_ man I have ever set eyes upon.' He spits before taking a big swig from the bottle and nearly coughing it up again -bloody French mead, too honeyed, too many spices, making for an intense, overwhelming blend, much like the country itself.

'There is really no need for such hostilities, _mon cher Angleterre_.' France says breathily, tongue thick with liquor as he saunters near.

'Today is a day of celebration, or has that infantile little mind of yours already forgotten? 

England barks a laugh, and it sounds odd and empty bouncing off of the castle walls. 

'You know as well as I do that this is not to last. No matter how many times my house promises or bows, your king will attempt to dig his greedy fingers into my Gascony in every way that he possibly can!'

With Gascony at stake, war was a definite inescapable sentence to both sides of the Channel. The wines, merchant routes, ports; England and his people simply could not do without his beloved continental possession and he was more than willing to die a thousand deaths trying to defend it. 

'My king is not to blame for attempting to relieve those poor people of _Gascogne_ from the unreasonably high taxes you inflict upon them to sustain your _pathetic_ little land of mud and sheep.' France hisses in a wild, sudden flare of annoyance, nearly knocking the bottle out of England's hand with his accusing gestures.

'Your king has _no_ right to interfere in lands and business of the English crown, and should he not pay homage to this knowledge any time soon, there will be far larger matters plaguing his mind, and it will have the very nature of his kingship rattling on its foundations.' England threatens in a whisper, admiring how France's flushed face whitens with rage. 

'You jest! Surely even you are not delusional enough as to believe your king has as much as a shred of a claim to the French throne, _my throne!'_ He laughs, loud and harsh, though his eyes remain cold. 

He stumbles so close that England can almost taste his breath, the sour wine and some sort of fruit- raspberries?- thick on his tongue, can almost feel the anger radiating from the other country and he braces himself, waiting, longing even, for the first blow to land. 

Nothing comes, except for the heavy palm on his shoulder and France's eyes far too close to his own. 

'Do not tempt me, Arthur dear.' His nemesis croons into his ear, icy sound piercing through bones and skin as England's backplate scratches the wall. 'You should know by now that I'm never one to turn down the chance to make you bleed.'

Every single word is uttered as a scorching whisper smeared along the curve of his jaw, and the cold, empty hallway suddenly feels too cramped as around him all is France, and though he could easily push the drunkard away, England stands frozen as a mixture of obscene invitations and death threats is mouthed into the crook of his neck. 

'Your peace won't last for long if you go on like this.' He manages to hiss at last. 'That lying mouth of yours won't spill filth after I've put a spike through it.'

He pushes forward then, hard, but France recovers surprisingly quickly, being back on him in mere seconds, smiling as though England has just sang him a declaration of love. 

'Ah~ bit violent, non? Brutish, unrefined as ever, I see.' He slurs, dragging one devious hand over England's breastplate and _down_ , thoroughly muddling the latter's ability to think clearly.

'You never stopped being a barbarian, did you? _Mon petit barbare_..' France all but moans, and England suddenly feels short of air in his lungs as that cursed hand slips between his legs and squeezes down hard. 

'Quit it now, creature of sin, or I will not hesitate to cut your throat and watch you bleed, truces and peaces be damned!' He growls, and France nips sharply at his earlobe before he draws away laughing, slightly put of breath and primrose flush perched high upon his cheeks. 

'As badly as I long to see you try, you will have to put these wishes away for another time, my dear.' 

After a moment of silence, with England taking long, anguished swigs from the bottle, France lets out a sigh, reaching to take both of England's hands. 

'Let us make peace now, and celebrate the beautiful day on which your king entwined hands with mine and paid homage to his greatness underneath the great ceilings of the cathedral of Amiens, under the watchful and approving eye of the Lord!' 

England momentarily stares at the smooth, effeminate hands wrapped around his own, recalls clinging to Gaul's hand as they ran through forests and flower fields, gentle hands to wipe away his angry tears, eager hands to send pleasure burning down his body. 

Those were the very same hands still, but they were now drenched in blood, in sin. The thought of what he had lost hits him hard. 

'Curious, how you dare speak of the Lord's approval, whilst you're the most _godless_ kingdom amongst us all.' He grits out, furiously trying to yank his hands out of France's iron grip, spitting violently in his face for good measure, but without any notable result, except for a string of vile curses flying from France's lips. 

Then there's the pain, burning its way through his lower ribs as the bottle falls to shambles against the stone-cold floor. 

Momentarily, his body is on fire in a desperate search for air and as he doubles over from France's knee in his ribcage, there's the other nation forcing him down onto his knees, still holding onto his hands and making him hold them up helplessly, like a breathless beggar child. 

_'Godless_ , you say.' France says venomously, ominous anger swirling in his eyes like thunder and lightning as he presses his boot onto England's thighs, sending hollow aches down to his kneecaps and he thanks the Lord for the thick leather cuffs he wears around his shins, for he feels glass shatter underneath them as France stomps down.

'Your poison tongue dares to speak of a _godless k_ ingdom, yet your king entered a house of the Lord and kneeled before mine, kissed his hands and paid homage to his greatness, the godly greatness of France!' 

The hem of France's silk tunic -short and tight and revealing _far_ too much of his breaches; display of harlotry much like the rest of him- is in his face, knuckles and gemstones of his rings pressing painfully against his lips and teeth as France jams his fist forward.

'Don't you want to kiss me too, little _Angleterre_?' He purrs, nothing but cruelty etched into his features as he looks down at him, blood pooling into England's mouth as something deep and dark inside of him springs loose. 

Before he as much as realizes it, he's up on his feet with one hand firmly around France's throat, slamming him into the wall as he dives and bites at his lips. 

France's faint gasps and hisses of protest, the glass cracking into sand underneath their feet; it is all merely a blur to him as his free hand claws and pulls at the golds and silks and furs laid bare to him. Chuckling into France's mouth with perverse satisfaction, he feels fabric ripping and tearing beneath his fingers as he scratches and gropes at every part of him within his reach. His inflamed scalp informs him that there's fingers tugging savagely at his hair, but the wicked euphoria soaring through his body drowns out all real pain as he conquers and destroys the man beneath him, violently desiring to tear him open from his golden crown down to his marble toes. 

Drawing back to breathe, he avoids France's wide blown eyes and heads straight for the throat, sinking his teeth into it as he pulls hard on thick handfuls of soft hair for better access. The sound that France omits after that is hardly human, and England greedily drinks it up, mercilessly rutting against him until his hips twitch and his head spins. 

* * *

_After a bit of practice, Britannia had figured out how to kiss his friend just right, and Gaul would breathe soft, content sighs into his mouth as he tenderly tucked strands of spun gold behind his ears.._

* * *

It is over as quick as it started, with England stepping back to wipe blood and drool from his lips and France heaving over to clutch at his throat, coughing and spitting onto the floor. 

'Was that enough of a kiss for you France?' He snarls crudely and he watches as his nemesis' handsome, spit-smeared face contorts in fury. 

He truly is a sight to behold, even more so now, France, bare-toothed sneer on his flushed, glistening lips, pure chaos in his gaze. 

'Go to hell, England!' He screeches, something of a sob threading through the curse, and it's music to England's ears. The fur trimmings of his coat are stained with blood, trickling down from where England's teeth pierced the skin at his throat. 'Go to hell, I said!' 

England stands and thinks of corpses lost in a sea of mud, kings and princes and dukes buried below the ground in nameless graves to be forgotten and alone, gold and silver turned dull and silk turned to ashes, gunpowder in his eyes and blood in his mouth as the screams of the dead and the dying ring in his ears.. Battlefield; true face of the devil, the only one their kind will ever meet. 

'I will, France.' England says coldly. 'And I will meet you there. Sooner than you think, perhaps.''

He doesn't look back as he walks away. 

_On the 24th of May, 1337, the Hundred Years War began; a series of ruthless wars in which five generations of kings from the French house of Valois and the English house of Plantagenet battled for the right of succession of the French throne. The conflict were to last an astounding 116 years, 4 months, 3 weeks and 4 days, in which great losses were felt on both sides, until finally the French managed to decisively defeat the English at Castillon on the 19th of October, 1453. After that, the English lost most of their possessions on the continent, including the entirety of Gascony._

**Author's Note:**

> 6th of June, 1329: Ever since 1152, the English house of Plantagenet were vassals to the French king as they governed Gascony and some other lands in his name. Every vassal had to pay homage to the king, though this raised some issues as the English kings were not keen on acting as if they stood 'below' the French kings. This resulted in an incident known as the War of Saint Sardos back in 1324 where the French attempted to rid their lands of England's influence and successfully invaded large parts of Gascony. A truce was established, with the English king Edward II being forced to send his queen Isabella and his son Edward III to France to carry out negotiations. In order to save himself from the humiliation of paying homage Edward gifted his French possessions to his son Edward III, who would have to pay homage for them. Edward III paid homage to the French king on multiple occasions, the last time being on the 6th of June 1329 in Amiens, thus putting off another conflict, but only for the time being. 
> 
> Picquigny castle: There was no specific celebration after Edward paid his homage, not any that I could find at least, though Edward and his entourage were Philip's guests for 14 days, so I imagine multiple feasts and banquets must have taken place, especially since the French King was keen on showing off, as kings were back in the time. The feast at Picquigny castle is purely fictional. I chose Picquigny simple because it is near the city of Amiens, where the two kings met. The Treaty of Picquigny (1475) also marked the formal end of the Hundred Years War so that's a symbolic touch. 
> 
> Pointy shoes: Around the middle of the 14th century the trend of wearing long, pointy shoes arised among European nobles. The longer the point, the higher the status of the wearer. The points would often be stuffed with things like moss to keep their shape.
> 
> Gascony: His 1152 marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine allowed the future English king Henry II to gain control of his new wife's possessions of Aquitaine and Gascony. This addition to his already plentiful holdings made Henry the most powerful vassal in France. Throughout the centuries the kingdoms of France and England clashed over Gascony many times, as it was quite a large region and of huge economic importance to the English, eventually resulting in the start of the Hundred Years' War.
> 
> Claim to the French throne: In 1328, Charles IV of France died without sons or brothers and a new principle disallowed female succession. Charles's closest male relative was his nephew Edward III of England, whose mother, Isabella of France, was Charles's sister. Isabella claimed the throne of France for her son, but the French rejected it, maintaining that Isabella could not transmit a right she did not possess. Political sentiment favoured a Frenchman for the crown rather than a foreign prince. The throne passed instead to Charles's patrilineal cousin, Philip, Count of Valois. The English had not expected their claim to be successful and did not immediately challenge the succession. French disagreements with Edward, however, induced Philip to confiscate Edward's lands in France, which then prompted Edward to reclaim the French throne.


End file.
